


we'll lay here (for years, or for hours)

by fairmanor



Category: God's Own Country (2017)
Genre: Closure, Fluff, Healing, Introspection, M/M, Mending Relationships, Seasons, This doesn't have much plot it's just Johnny being happy bc it's what he deserves, cooking as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 18:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmanor/pseuds/fairmanor
Summary: Johnny rekindling his relationship with Gheorghe also means rekindling his relationship with the rest of his town and the life he had grown to hate.
Relationships: Gheorghe Ionescu/Johnny Saxby
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41





	we'll lay here (for years, or for hours)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apothefarley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apothefarley/gifts).



> This is gifted to my lovely friend Megan, who kindly let me borrow her DVD of the movie. I literally haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. You're an absolute angel and I love you so much!
> 
> This is my first time writing for this fandom! It's been so therapeutic because I live ridiculously close to where the movie was filmed and my life looks very similar to theirs. I literally make cheese for a living. I'm not even joking!! So a lot of this is just me describing a combination of my village and all the villages and towns that surround me in our little dale. It means a lot to be able to write a queer couple living a quiet, simple life in a place that doesn't often get a lot of LGBTQ+ representation.
> 
> Title is from Hozier's "In a Week". Megan and I were talking about how they had such a Hozier vibe, and that one is the most _them_ song of them all.

* * *

_Winter_

There’s a space between the wall and the bed in Johnny’s room where all his worst-case scenarios live.

Every sleepless night, every ugly thought was poured into the sliver of carpet and dimpled, off-white paint. He remembers staring at the skirting board until the sun rose and his eyes were bloodshot the night before his GCSEs, knowing he’d fall asleep in the exam yet forcing himself to stay awake anyway. He’s still not sure why he did that. He remembers coming home after every night out, curling himself up in bed even though it was a fruitless endeavour to try and get his drunken self to sleep. It’s not a nice space in the house, but it’s easy. It was always easy to turn around after a long, shit day and stare at the wall, hoping that maybe if he thought hard enough then his eyes might bore a hole in it. A place he can physically store all the things inside his head.

But now, it’s gone.

There _was_ a space between the wall and the bed. Because that’s where the headboard of his new bed is now, sitting right on the space that gave Johnny so much comfort and discomfort at the same time. It’s just another one of the ways Gheorghe has rewritten things for him here. How he’s taken the cold, blemished mudsplat of a place and turned it into an oil painting in Johnny’s eyes. Nothing much has actually changed about the landscape, but…it has. It has.

That’s where he is right now, waking slowly and leaning into the patch of sun as he does every morning. The way the window is positioned means that it shines onto Gheorghe’s side of the bed when it rises. It gives Johnny an excuse to curl up near him if he wants, or prop himself on his arm and take a look.

The sight of Gheorghe knocks the breath out of his lungs no matter the time of day, but there’s something about him the morning, right before he wakes up, that’s _ethereal._ The rich, golden canvas of coarse olive skin, the silken hairs curled across his chest, the minute flutter of his eyelashes and the gentle rise of his stomach as he stirs. Johnny’s not sure how he used to stay awake for so long now that he gets to be well-rested enough to catch this sight in the morning.

He runs a hand over Gheorghe’s shoulder, pressing his fingertips in and squeezing gently. Gheorghe stretches towards him, keeping his eyes closed as he murmurs, “I need you to buy lemons for me.”

John stopped trying to contain a smile at that gorgeous, sleep-soft voice a long time ago. He chuckles, bringing himself down to Gheorghe’s level.

“Lemons? What d’you need lemons for?”

“Making cheese,” he says, shuffling in closer and nestling his head into John’s shoulder.

“Why don’t you just get some starter culture off th’ computer?”

“Mm, won’t arrive in time. I am trying it with lemons for once.”

“Why can’t you go?” he argues. He knows he’s whining now, but that’s the game they play. The gentle back-and-forth is worn in, familiar, solid. It means something. It’s precious to him now.

“I am busy. Finishing all the shit you did not do yesterday.”

“Oh, get away.”

“Bastard.”

 _“You_ are.”

As usual, Johnny makes a show of not wanting to get out of bed in the hopes that Gheorghe will give in and go himself. Really, the truth is he’d bend over backwards for this man. This quiet, funny man who he’s – weather permitting – going to marry in April.

But eventually he does, and it’s only when he’s dressed with two cups of tea down him that he realises there’s an obstacle standing in the way of today.

He hasn’t been in town by himself since he met Gheorghe.

When it occurs to him, the thought feels small in his head. A trivial, trifling thing, a mere afterthought for people less complicated than him. It’s just not something he’s done much of before, going into town alone. His dad drove him to school until he was sixteen, and Nan always popped down for the odd newspaper or coffee morning without stopping to ask if he wanted to come with her since she already knew what the answer would be. They do a bulk order of food from Costco once a month and keep the pantry filled with massive bags of rice and long-life milk in case they get another cold spell as bad as 2018.

It feels distant, up on this hill. The town that rings faintly of primary school nativities and shops full of knickknacks. He’s spent plenty of time sitting in the back of the car, waiting for Deirdre as she goes to the butcher’s or drops off a blanket she’s knitted for someone’s baby. He’s spent plenty of time skulking outside of the pub, his palm planted on the wall as he dry-heaved into the rain-glistening pavement.

It’s been a while since he really _lived_ there.

There’s a little Co-op between the tiny hairdresser’s and the woman who sells painted rocks. John’s stomach starts to churn as the car pulls round the final bend and stutters to a stop in front of it. He’s not sure why, really. He knows the person behind the counter. He used to sit next to her son in maths. He’s used to this place, and it’s used to him – or maybe that’s the problem. They know a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore. _Martin Saxby’s lad, you know the one. Quiet. Not very approachable. He’s got something a bit sad about him, doesn’t he?_

It takes him a minute to get out the car, but when he does he shoves his hands into his pockets and hurries inside as quickly as he can.

It’s the same as it always has been. The fifteen-year-old slush machine is still whirring round and round, the magazines are still bearing trashy misleading headlines, Union Jack Radio is still crackling over the speaker.

Johnny makes his way to the back of the store and picks up a bag of lemons. He also gets a pack of Eccles cakes for the cupboard and a pack of Maltesers, since Gheorghe’s become obsessed with them since moving here.

After delaying himself long enough, he finally shuffles his way to the counter.

The cashier gives him a look that lasts about a split second before nodding at him.

“Now then,” she says.

Johnny glances up at her, offering her what he hopes is a brief smile. “Now then.”

“Scratch card?”

He looks down at the wheel of cards attached to the back of the till. More than once, he’s bought at least half of them. There’s so many things stopping him from doing that now, but clearly there’s still a version of Johnny Saxby living in this shop, in these streets. One he needs to get rid of. One he _wants_ to get rid of.

“No thanks,” he says, quiet but firm.

The woman raises her eyebrows as she starts to ring up the lemons. She doesn’t say anything, but it almost looks like relief.

“These for your lad?” she says, pointing at the cakes. It takes John a minute to register what’s just come out of her mouth, and how casually, but when he does he can’t help but smile and huff out a small laugh.

“Aye. The bloody things are always gone in five minutes.”

She chuckles, ringing up the last of it and taking his money. It’s only when he’s outside that he realises he can breathe a bit better than he could when he went in. Like clearing winter leaves, like siphoning grease off the rim of a car. Like mornings up on the moors, silent and sure, in the arms of the only person he needs.

* * *

_Spring_

They get married, and it’s a quiet thing. No speeches, no frills. Just the two of them and some cake. They might have an open gazebo some summer evening when the weather is nicer, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

“What would be your dream one, do you think?”

Johnny barely hears it over the gentle evening bustle of the kitchen. There’s something bubbling on the stove, the steam from his tea is billowing up into his face, and he’s bent over the wooden kitchen island engrossed in his book.

“What?”

“You know, your dream one.”

“Dream what?”

Gheorghe shoots him an incredulous look. “What do you think?”

“Well I don’t friggin’ know, do I?”

“Wedding!”

Johnny gets up as Gheorghe says it, jumping back just in time before his husband thwaps him with the tea towel he’s got slung over his shoulder.

“Well, you didn’t make it very clear.”

“We just had one,” Gheorghe says, rolling his eyes. “It should be the only thing you are thinking about.”

Johnny jabs at Gheorghe’s waist, right where he’s ticklish, and lets himself be pulled into a comfortable side hug as Gheorghe gets back to cutting onions. They’re trying a lasagne with the newest batch of sheep’s cheese in the white sauce.

“Don’t do them too thick, they won’t sit right in the dish,” Johnny murmurs. Before he knows it, he’s peeling carrots and seasoning mince and teasing Gheorghe for wanting to make garlic bread from scratch, _you dafty, it’ll never be done in time,_ even though it always is because Gheorghe has a knack for these gentle and fiddly things.

“Will you get the dough out from the cooler bit of the oven?”

“Want me to knead it n’ that?”

“Mm.”

Johnny takes the dough out from where it’s been proving all afternoon. He prods at the top of it, dusts some flour onto the counter and lays it out. It’s soothing, this repetition of kneading and flipping and sprinkling flour. He can see why Gheorghe likes it. He can see why husbands have been making bread together for thousands of years. And not for the first time, he wonders how he ended up here. How he travelled so far just to end up in the same place, similar yet so different. There’s something new yet not at all new about him, like the ancient nothingness of bread.

Once the sauces are finished and the lasagne in, Gheorghe wraps his arms around Johnny and scores lines in the top of the bread. They brush it with garlic butter and put it in with the lasagne. They bask in the warmth of the oven, half-leaning on the counter, and Gheorghe takes hold of Johnny’s flour-covered hand and kisses the knuckles, the sides, the tips of his fingers.

“You taste like salt,” he murmurs, and Johnny wonders for the millionth time if his love has a cap. If he’ll ever bank one day. Or if it’ll just keep building; if he’ll overproof, spill over, until there’s light coming out the chimney. “Also, you never answered my question.”

“Hm? About what?”

“Your dream wedding.”

There are so many answers. And at the same time, there’s only one.

“Oh, I’m not fussed.”

* * *

_Summer_

The weather warms, the lambs grow, and Johnny finds himself going into town more and more.

Whenever his nan needs to go, he offers to drive her. He heads down and picks up ginger tea and cakes whenever Dad is ill, or whenever Gheorghe and his damn sweet tooth roll over in the morning and whisper that he wants something from the shop. It’s how he finds out about the shows, and all the categories and competitions open that he can enter things in.

Well, it’s not how he discovers the shows for the very first time. He’s been going to the shows since before Mam left. She would wheel him round in a pushchair, hauling the buggy over the bumpy mud as he reached out at the sheep and food stalls. His dad always went without him once Johnny was old enough to cop out and spend the day in the beer tent.

Now, something’s compelling him to take the sign-up booklet from the counter in the local crafts shop. He slaps it down on the kitchen counter when he gets home, calling Deirdre over as he sits down and flips it open.

“There’s scones in here, Nan,” he says. “You could do a carrot cake as well. Or enter one of them baby jackets in the knitting section.”

“Hang on, where’s all this coming from?” Deirdre says, leaning in and putting her glasses on to have a look at the booklet. “Haven’t entered anything in’t shows for years.”

“I know. Thought we might as well now we’ve got time.”

She gives him an odd look, one he can’t quite place. She doesn’t smile often, never has, but there’s a lightness about her like a weight has come off her neck.

“If you insist,” she says, clapping Johnny’s shoulder lightly before she grabs a pen to fill in the sign-up pages at the back.

In the end, Johnny has them enter three sheep, two of their cows, an apple pie, some cheese scones and four eggs. He’s never known what the point in judging eggs is, but first prize is a fiver so he puts them in.

The showground looks the same as it always has. It sounds and smells the same as it always has. Bustle and balloons and small brass bands, fried doughnut stands with red striped awning, dressage, cattle being circled round the pens for show. The WI ladies selling their drop scones for 50p. It’s all the same things Johnny has borne witness to for twenty-five years, but walking into it now he’s hit by a sudden wave of nostalgia and fondness that cuts him off at the knees. He was only looking at it before. He’s really _seeing_ it now, all these bits of life and all the people and their animals who defined his upbringing.

He and Gheorghe get the cattle roped up and brushed, lock the sheep into their pens. They take a look through the tents at the countless other things on sale or up for competition, watch the judges in their tweed put ribbons on carved walking sticks and watercolour paintings. Without thinking, without thinking _once,_ Johnny reaches down and slips his hand into Gheorghe’s. It’s soft and a little dry, just like it is at the breakfast table and in front of the fire at night.

“You big softie,” Gheorghe says quietly. It’s a saying he got from Johnny, and now he says it too much. Wields Johnny’s own weapon against him.

He just squeezes tighter.

They eat their lunch at the edge of the field among the parked cars, their backs to the drystone wall. Deirdre’s bitching about her disqualified pie, Gheorghe’s humming something to himself, and for the first time since his mam left Johnny feels like he’s on a family outing.

“Can you see the cows from here, Nan?”

“Aye, why?”

“Go n’ see if they’ve graded them yet.”

Deirdre squints at the faraway pen. “Give es a minute to finish this and I’ll go.”

Johnny smirks. “It’s cos Sylvia Hedley’s over there, isn’t it?”

“Aye.” Deirdre pulls a face. “Nasty bitch.”

“It’s just a pie, Nan. We’ll still get it eaten.”

“Hers was no bloody better!”

Deirdre forcibly steers them away from the pens when they finish their lunch, getting them to wait until her arch nemesis has left. They gravitate toward the beer tent while they wait, the thick smell of the tankards round the back knocking John a bit sick. He doesn’t drink as much these days.

There are a couple of lads at the bar that he recognises from school. Gheorghe buys himself a pint and a small half for Johnny, getting their attention in the process.

“Johnny Saxby?”

Johnny leans across the bar, nodding over to them. “Liam Peart? Aye, hello.”

“Been a while, ha’nt it?”

“Not seen you since you went down to Sheffield,” Johnny says.

“Aye, well I’m back for good now.” Liam holds up his ringed left hand. “Wife wanted them bringing up on’t farm.”

Johnny nods, taking a sip of his beer to try and delay conversation a bit. It’s silly, really, how much he feels like a teenager whenever he senses that someone’s going to talk about Gheorghe.

“That your other half, then?” Liam says, pointing towards Gheorghe who’s moved away to sit with Deirdre.

 _There it is,_ Johnny thinks. The stupid flush creeping up his face. The smile he’s trying to fight.

“It is and all,” the other man says, the bearded one that Johnny recognises as Callum Macgregor. “Is it, John?”

“Aye,” he mutters, biting down on the rising corner of his mouth.

“Aye?”

Johnny nods. There’s a second of awkward silence before Liam laughs good-naturedly, and it sets Johnny off too.

“Look at you, big lovesick softie. Didn’t think you’d ever settle down for good. I’m glad for y’.”

Johnny takes another sip of beer, and it leaves a burning trail inside his throat, warm and comforting and _good._ It’s been a while since alcohol’s done that.

“Cheers,” he says.

They catch up a while longer before Deirdre calls him over to go check on the pens. He can spy the ribbons yards off. Second prize for one, third for the other, and a first and a special for two of the sheep.

Johnny’s glad for himself, too.

* * *

_Autumn_

They don’t often take Pot Noodles up the dale anymore when there’s shifts to be done. Gheorghe will make them both some soup and keep it warm in flasks, and bring up some fresh bread rolls and cheese in wax paper to eat with it. If it’s warmer, Gheorghe will teach Johnny some traditional Romanian recipes and they’ll make sarmale and eggplant salad in their pyjamas the night before.

But today it’s the start of tupping season and it’s bastard cold, so they have soup. More than lambing, Johnny has always dreaded this part of the year. There’s not a fibre in his body that looks forward to setting a rambunctious, hormonal tup free among a field of ewes and watching it go to town for three hours before moving it to the next field.

They’re sat on a rock by the barn in their waterproofs, blowing on their flasks as they supervise the forty-one sheep in the field.

“Do you think the sheep will mind that we are eating their milk in front of them?”

“Mind? They don’t bloody know.”

“Perhaps they can smell it.”

“Well, they’re hardly gonna ram y’ for it. What d’you think they’ll do, nick it and feed it to the lambs when they’re born?”

“Maybe. Maybe they’ll stop letting me go near them once they know I am a milk thief.”

John laughs, loud and genuine, filling in the gaps left by the wind and the birdsong and all the expectations he had about hating this part of his life forever.

“We chat some right shite, don’t we?”

 _“You_ do.”

He leans his head on Gheorghe’s shoulder. A particularly sharp gust of wind passes them by, bringing a short spray of rain with it that catches John’s cheek. He starts thinking about their fire and the big pot of coffee that they’ll be putting straight on the Aga when they get in.

“D’you think we should do the house up in the spring?”

“What do you mean, do it up? Is there something broken?”

“No, just…move things round a bit. Maybe get some new furniture n’ that.”

Gheorghe shrugs. “I suppose some new carpets in the living room would not hurt.”

“Getting a bit threadbare, aren’t they?”

“Mm.”

Johnny watches the tup lie down to rest himself before his second round, and he can’t quite believe he’s here talking like this. Making stupid jokes. Talk of mending and new things. With his _husband,_ of all people. Now there’s something he never thought he’d have.

It’s because after all this time, he’s still struggling to believe that it’s real. That the place he spent his entire life trying to escape from – well, he gets to have it now. He has a family. He has old schoolfriends who have moved back here for good. He realises that there wasn’t much missing from it at all, except a man who talks of building a dairy on the farm and sings too loudly along to 6 Music at nine in the morning.

“I love you, y’know,” Johnny says, quiet and uncontrollable. His fleece rustles as he cranes his neck up to look at his husband. “You do know that, don’t y’?”

A strong, steady arm snakes around his waist and Gheorghe pulls him up until their cold noses are touching.

“And you’re a big softie,” Gheorghe says, closing the distance between them and capturing Johnny’s lips in a kiss.

Maybe down the line, they’ll have arguments about that dairy and how much it’ll cost them. Maybe Johnny will worry when the price of milk goes down. Maybe this year’s lambs won’t do well against the cold snap they’re predicting.

But, as Johnny is reminded every single day, they’re just maybes. Gheorghe is what’s certain now. And no matter what comes, the sun will shine out the better as long as he’s here.


End file.
